The amazonian little princess, a vibratile filagree, —Turquoise eyes sculpted of porcelain, little princess— Called one night at my door with her small hands of iris. And the trilling crystal of her voice was like an elegant flute:

—I know your life is gray. I have the soul of a rose, the dew of budding flowers, I come from a beautiful country To be your sister and muse!—.

An arm of alabaster...then, in the sonorous carnation Of her mouth, softest honey; in a cloud of gold and perfume She surrounded me, brash horsewoman, like a deluge. Oh honey, freshness, perfumer!...The sudden dream, the shadow Which intoxicates...and when I wake, the sun that falls on my carpet In a false ruby very red, and a false ringlet very blond.